Dissolutionaria
by Gannet
Summary: Hermione has a revolutionary plan to save the wizarding world, and loses no time to implement it. HGSS, HarryGinny, parody of Better Authors. CAUTION: adults only strong language
1. A Secret Gathering

**Part one – A Secret Gathering**

The scene of our humble drama takes place in the year 2000, in Northern Scotland. Let it be explained that the time and place matter little to the author; indeed, she has taken some liberties with the settings, trying to indicate by this that she strives to cloud the present play in a shrine of generalisation, of great lessons about human nature, human failures, and human achievements. Any dedicated reader should devoutly keep this in mind, and never even suggest that the author doesn't have an inkling of what Northern Scotland looked like a few years ago. Thank you.

Where was I? Ah, right, the settings.

Scotland was at the time a true mirror of the rest of the world. A huge battlefield stretched as far as the eye could see: nothing but hovering Dark Marks, streams of glistening green light, and the smell of powder – wizards often lighted Weasley Whizz-bangs to cheer up after the grisliest scenes of murder and destruction.

Are you asking a question already, gentle reader? Or should I say, inquisitive reader? Yes? Don't witches light Weasley Whizz-bangs too?

Ah, despite your obtrusiveness, you may have a point, clever reader. The answer is a downright no. Witches did not light Weasley Whizz-bangs. As a matter of fact, witches did not cast Dark Marks or green streaks either. Witches were indeed very much confined to selected fields such as breeding, teaching, journalism, or Wizengamoting – you can feel JKR herself tried to right matters by hinting at a few women in positions of responsibility, but they are not many, nor well described. But I digress again, please excuse me – let us go back to our main track, shall we? We are in need of some action.

So, despite the climate of disgusting male chauvinism, one cold January morning, before dawn, a distinctly female figure slipped out of a nondescript Hogsmeade house and walked briskly towards Hogwarts. The witch let a strand of frizzy hair slip out of her robe's hood, thus indicating to you, dense reader, that she is none other than the infamous Hermione Granger, who already graduated from school as we can't have under aged participants here, political correctness and all, you have seen the rating, you understand the need to skip a few years after canon, don't you? I can't post chan, you see, it's contrary to the anti-child-pornography laws of my country, and Mr. W. doesn't like it either, war on obscenities and all, so let's call it quits and go on with the story, shall we?

Hermione walked through the entrance gates, thus entering the scene, and here, faithful reader, do you cease to be a reader to become a spectator. Or at least you would if we had had the courage to step into our model's footprints and to write a full-blown play. But human nature is only what it is, you know, feeble and cowardly, so we shall not derive from the well-beaten path of omniscient narrative. If you are tempted to criticise this choice, and feel you should enlighten us as to our horrendous lack of writing skills, mastery of POV shifts and proper spelling, do stop reading. That way, you won't bother me – and it's just too bad if you don't get to see how Hermione paced up and down the makeshift stage in a distinctively impatient manner. You won't get to hear her impatient mutterings, her anxious staring at her watch, and her cursing – the last not being a bad thing, after all, as we can't have you listening to too much cussing, it would have nefarious consequences on an already impressive rating.

"Why are you so late?" she asked to an out-of-breath Ginevra that had barely just entered the scene as well, some time after Hermione's own arrival. (Do note how she waited for another protagonist to appear before she began to talk. We can't have the main protagonist talking to herself that soon in the story, can we? Madness only comes in act the third act, as you well know) "The meeting was scheduled to begin twenty minutes before dawn! Where are the others?"

"This is your fault, Hermione! How could you expect us all to know when the sun is supposed to rise? We all have watches and magically-powered alarm-clocks, you know, we don't give much notice to the time the sun goes up, especially as it tends to change every day!"

Hermione refrained from lifting her eyes skywards with great trouble. Dealing with people that are not intimately acquainted with the lives, customs and means of time-measurement of ancient Greeks can be so tiresome at times. As it is to deal with readers who didn't get the allusions to… ah, well, I'll have to spell it out in the author's notes, I suppose.

"Ginny, the entire future of the wizarding world is at stake. Death Eater wives will be arriving shortly. I didn't have my morning cup of coffee as Severus was not yet awake to bring it to me in bed. Don't you feel how dire the situation really is?"

(We beg you pardon, sycophantic reader, to thus rape cannon without regard for Vaseline®, but for the benefit of all those readers who spend time with us right now instead of refreshing the Ashwinder main page, let us suppose that Snape is not evil and that he and our heroine are happily married at the time of these events. You do understand that not including Snape in the story would have meant losing a large part of the readership, and this is something I cannot really afford, as you well realise.)

The last argument had made young Ginevra hear reason. There are things you must not do under any circumstances, and contrary a caffeine-deprived Hermione figured in good place among them.

"Mother is coming soon, I suppose. And Padma is on her way too, I saw her coming. But why are Death Eater wives coming too?"

"Not all of them are coming, only Narcissa and Pansy – they'll tell the others what the plan is – don't fidget, I'll tell you all what the plan is, when all the other Order witches are here too – ah, here they arrive!"

We shall be so bold as to suppose that you, addicted reader, have not ingested sufficient quantities of caffeine to deal with the detailed arrival of all these witches either, and shall therefore skip to the point where they are all present, have greeted each other, and exchanged comments about their respective appearances, robes, the weather, their husbands' sexual prowess of the night, what juicy piece of fic they had last read, and other subjects we shall not delve into for lack of time, interest, and broadband.

"My dear friends," began Hermione, "you certainly wonder why I had you all wake up so early to come here…"

A chorus of approvals met her statement.

"We have been at war for several years now. Several years of tensions, of hatred, of deaths. None of us witches has ever raised a wand against another – no, we know that putting stinging salve in the opponent's contact lens solution is a much more efficient way of getting one's way. Yet all of us have lost at least a father, a husband, or a son – often more, sometimes all three at once. All of us have had to deal with the loss of a child we suffered hours long to put into the world – have to sleep each night in a cold, empty, desolate bed, with a vibrating wand for only company, as our significant other got blasted away by a stray Avada."

Murmurs of agreement rose from the assembly. The death toll was quite not that high yet, but you really had to allow some literary liberties in so good a speech.

"And yet, what are we doing to prevent this sad occurrences? What have we undertaken to stop our male counterparts from taking each other's lives? We have no one but ourselves to blame for this war - we should have stopped it days, months, years ago!"

The word "how" hovered on every pair of lips. On every upper pair of lips, need we precise. We shall also precise that no conjecture was ever emitted here regarding the possible stiffness of Englishwomen's lower pairs of lips, no, that would be a bit cheeky, even for us. Englishwomen are, however, allowed to ask "how" like good little sycophants, they won't necessarily be hexed for doing so.

Hermione let a few instants pass by to enjoy the budding suspense.

"The means, sisters, is not easy. But it is within our reach…"

The suspense went up another few notches. The audience was quivering, staring at Hermione's lips in the hope of her delivering this miraculous solution. The author, noticing that you, drooling reader, have adopted the same posture, therefore decided to place a cliffhanger right here, at the end of the first part of her first multi-chaptered fic. Yes, she is evil, and you may just want to leave her a review to tell her so. Whilst reviewing, do take the opportunity to tell her in great lengths how wonderful, beautiful and masterful her fic is. Thank you for reading.

A/N: The characters are all borrowed from JK Rowling. No disrespect is meant, no money is made, no harm is intended. The plot is shamelessly stolen from a Great Playwright you have certainly recognised by now – House points to those who did, anyway :)


	2. The Great Bargain

**Part two – The Great Bargain**

"Abstinence!"

This, faithful reader, is not an excerpt of a speech by George W. Bush extolling the virtues of not shagging as a way of life, to save the rainforest, rubber trees, the free world, and the armament industry.

No, it is Hermione proposing to a very attentive audience how to stop the ongoing war between Death Eaters and Order wizards.

This one word, however, is enough to propel a bunch of spellbound witches into utter disorganisation, just as it can, in context, prompt a bunch of raving WIKTTers in a new fit of agitation.

"Abstinence?"

"Did she say abstinence?"

"Abstinence?"

"You don't mean _abstinence_?

"Abstinence, what for?"

Hermione waited for the comments to abate before going on. One had to be careful of one's effects, after all. And reading the reactions of various WIKTTers to such a statement is so entertaining you would hardly miss it when you have the opportunity to stand close by and watch.

"Please think of it, sisters. Our husbands go to war only because they know we will be waiting for them at home, made all the friskier by their long absence, eager for their presence. If they know for a fact that going at war, casting hexes all over the place, risking life and limb on every occasion, will only cause them to sleep on the couch when they do come back to us – well, I for one hold little doubt that they will come to reason within days, hours perhaps. No, if that is the only prospect they have if they do fight, they would make peace right away and stay where they belong, that is, at home, in the marriage bed."

Molly knew such a grand plan must have a snag, somewhere.

"But wait a minute – abstinence does mean we are not getting any either, and for an unforeseeable amount of time, as we don't know when they will indeed stop fighting?"

Hermione, along with a considerable part of the fandom, had a very hard time understanding what Molly and Arthur could find in each other – they were after all both redheads, and redheads are hardly attractive, are they? But they did seem never to get tired of their mutual company, and their considerable offspring was there to attest it to those fortunate enough never to have actually lived in the same house as them and therefore never to have been subjected to the noise those two produced at awkward times of the day and night.

A tactful answer was therefore called for.

"No – if we refuse sex to our husbands, it means we will not be having intercourse either. But do keep in mind that this sacrifice would be limited in time. As soon as the war ends, we'll be free again to consort with whomever we want, and the direct post-war periods are always known for producing lots of new babies, which means people shag a lot more then."

"But how can we refuse?" Lavender asked, puzzled. "When Seamus comes home, he, er, well, notices me, and I, er, notice the consequences it has on him, and that leads, to, er, my taking advantage of those consequences, and, well, how can I stop myself?"

Lavender always had trouble voicing her thoughts, but this time you really must agree with her, as I do myself – she did have a point. Hermione, though, had another opinion on the matter, and she never shied out of expressing her opinion, especially when trying to convince a large crowd was involved in the process.

"Resist. It is as simple as that. Charm him, tease him, subjugate him – and when you see he can't wait for it any longer, refuse him."

Studying the atmosphere in large groups of people assembled in a confined area often proves extremely interesting. Gauging the enthusiasm, the passions, the growing indifference, observing how a feeling is born and amplified in tidal waves over the gathering could be enough material for a full-blown postgraduate thesis – yes, I do assure you there have been stupider subjects in the past, and most certainly shall be in the future. There was no need for PhD students in the present case, though. Waves of hope had been tangible at the beginning of the meeting; they had then turned to shock, to disbelief, and to a small amount of curiosity; at the last sentence, however, they had become pure, unadulterated discontent. I should also report some wayward strands of frustration and of indignation if my narrative is to comprehend the entire truth.

"The charm you can put on your wand to make it vibrate is easy to learn" Hermione added hastily, in an attempt to overturn the atmosphere in her favour. "I could teach it to you within a few minutes – you can even get it to rotate and to get on different speeds."

A long silence followed.

And then, one lone, anonymous witch – ask JKR to specify who, we don't have that many canon characters to play with – rose her tentative voice.

"Is it possible to charm it beforehand, so that it changes its speed while you're using it?"

The first reaction from the audience usually determines the result of the entire negotiation process; this time was not to be an exception. Hermione taught them all how to execute the vibrating spell; and they all agreed to her plan.

Great battles are not always fought out of pure unadulterated selflessness, on the contrary. But let us state for the record that never before in wizarding history had so many witches given up so much sex for so great a cause. Let it be known to us, to our children, and to our children's children that, when given a clear choice between the saving their country, and indeed the entire wizard folk, and enjoying some juicy, consistent, dripping erections, the witches of Scotland chose the former. It was not without regret, no – a sacrifice is not that great when its real value is underestimated – but the choice was nonetheless taken, the engagement made, and the oath sworn. They hesitated, they argued, they digressed; they demanded a demonstration of the vibrating charm, and some practise; but they nonetheless repeated after Hermione the following oath:

"We, witches of Britain, hereby pledge allegiance to entire abstinence from sexual congress with our husbands, and all what it represents. We swear to wear the skimpiest negligees, the raciest lingerie, to make our spouses lust after us. We swear never to lie back, legs apart, with a Significant Other between them; we swear never to mount our partner in Holy Matrimony again; we swear never to play doggies in the nuptial bed; indeed we swear never to adopt any position that may spurt from a frustrated fangirl's imagination. We shall not take any advantage of our husbands attributes until their wooden wands are lain to rest. If we break our vow, may all the vine we bring to our lips instantly turn to water; may our wands never vibrate again; and may our husband turn soft at our very sight."

You must have recognised the exact terms of an Unbreakable oath. Anyone breaking this promise would suffer a long, painful death, even more dire than being condemned to water and sexual frustration, if such a thing is indeed possible.

Truth be told, none of the witches pronounced it with any gaiety. Even Hermione, who had promoted the idea from the very beginning, felt her voice falter at several points of the recitation – Snape is not a man to be renounced to easily, as most of this f-list very well knows. How many Snapey icons do you totalise, I wonder? Oh, but I digress. Where was I again? Yes, I know, I'm not a good storyteller, do feel free to back button if the lack of coherence bothers you. You're going to miss some hot sexx0rs, but then that's your choice. Yes, yes, I know, this doesn't sound very convincing right after a pledge for abstinence, but I do know where this story is leading – believe me or not, I'm the one who's telling it.

So, where was I? Ah, yes, the oath. The Unbreakable Oath.

The two representatives of the Death Eater wives furthermore pledged to spread the word and the Unbreakables in the other camp.

"I do have one request, though" said Narcissa. "You have a stronghold, Hogwarts; we do not. All our men will be equally affected by this forced abstinence, yet if they have someplace to barricade themselves in, you will find yourselves at great advantage compared to us. Can't you close Hogwarts and prevent your husbands from hiding there? Then we would be equals again."

"This has already been done!" Hermione answered, happy to be able to deliver a positive message for once. "McGonagall is in the secret; she has just barricaded Hogwarts against all male intruders, and we shall join her in a jiffy. Go back in peace to the other Death Eater wives, and instruct them of the plan. I bid you farewell, sisters – as of today, abstinence becomes the rallying word in the entire wizarding world, and this, until the end of the war!"

After such words, any further speech would be anti-climatic. Let us therefore part here, beloved readers. We shall meet again ere the set of sun, down by the hearth, there to meet with Hermioneth and her co-conspirators. The battle will not be lost, nor won, but further developments are indeed expected. We thank you for reading this, and hope to see you again!


	3. Wherein male characters appear

**Part 3 – Wherein male characters make an appearance**

You know, adored reader, writing is an awkward business. You get so absorbed by plot development, fidelity to the original storyline, or other such lowly considerations, that you forget the most basic political correctness. Believe it or not, the first two parts of this humble story did not leave one single opportunity for any male character to make an appearance. Shocking, isn't it? We're all here in the fandom to mindlessly worship at least one of the male actors playing in the HP movies, so why bother to read a story that doesn't bask in allusions to their long blond hair, long greasy hair, or short spiky hair? Oh, hang on a second. The author may just have understood why the hit count is so low. Do leave her to her recollections, whimsical reader, and look at the scene instead – several people are coming onstage, several men.

Men come in several varieties. First, there are those who have yet to be able to come; then those who would like to, repeatedly if possible; and then those who cannot any more.

All the world's a cunt, and all men and boys merely cocks; they have their exits, and their entrances - although usually it's not in that order, unless you count birth - and one man in his time has many rides, his orgasms coming in seven stages. At first, the bulge, pulsing and straining against the trousers; and then the growing erection, with its foreskin creeping back at a steady pace, back towards the shaft. And then the lover, sighing like furnace, with a woeful drop to rub against his mistress' dark curls. Than a soldier, full of enthusiasm, sheathed in to the hilt; predictable in his direction, quick in his moves, seeking the hidden spot in the very cannon's mouth. And then the ejaculation, in fair round rivulets, streaming along in large unruly filaments. The sixth stage shifts back towards the flaccid, with pouches on side, a world too wide for the shrunk member. Last scene of all, that ends this strange eventful history, is a growth back to the initial length – no more come, no more strength, no more anything.

This is the part (if we were faithful to our Great, Great models and providers of plots and quotes) where a chorus of elderly men should come in, chanting regular trochaic hexameters. We are sad to report that the author is too busy with figuring out why the hit count on this story is so low to actually write anything in trochaic hexameters. Or even in dactylic hexameters.

Truth be told, she's even too busy to provide you with a regular chorus – So poor Dumbledore finds himself all alone, quite aggrieved and looking forsaken, muttering under his ample breath that these bloody women had better figure out a good excuse for kicking him out of Hogwarts, him, the Headmaster, and on such short notice at that! Oh, but the Wizengamot would hear about this, yes sir, it would, and in no uncertain terms, no sir, there were times when some amount of bad language is practically called for, yes sir, called for it was.

Dumbledore was so absorbed in his ramblings that he did not notice you readers massed out around the Hogwarts gates, waiting for the play to go on. Neither did he notice the leering witches, huddled on the top of the highest towers, smiling at the horizon with glowing self-confidence.

He was of course committing a very grave mistake indeed. Readers can be ignored quite easily – isn't the author living proof of this? – but leering witches huddled on the top of the highest towers, smiling at the horizon with glowing self-confidence, mean trouble for the wizards underneath. And Dumbledore was terrifyingly unaware of just how grave the trouble was going to be. He had not even begun to measure the extent of trouble he found himself into. He was only in the middle of chapter three, and God only knows how long the story might go on, or what kind of developments it might bring.

Back in Hogsmeade, Severus, on the other hand, was starting to feel the first spurs of uneasiness.

He woke up.

He felt at his side.

His hand met nothing but cold bed linen. With an emphasis on "cold".

Now this was strange. Hermione never woke up before him – on the contrary, she was a very high-maintenance witch, and required at least two cups of coffee in bed, sometimes even a little bit of physical stimulation, before she deigned stand up. Severus made sure she would never leave him for another man by delivering both the cups of coffee and the morning entertainment session to her.

So how come she was not at his side at this early hour? It was hardly 7 o'clock.

Panic arose, unbidden. Kidnappers were excluded – no one in their right mind would ever attempt to kidnap her, she was way too powerful, even without her morning caffeine. But she might have left him after all. Maybe it was his fault? Maybe he had proven unable to satisfy her womanly needs? Maybe he should have brought her three morning cups instead of two only… no, scratch that, she was much too excited after two cups only, a third was not necessary. But the alternative was even worse! Were his skills insufficient? Were her enthusiastic exclamations during their last morning session, yesterday, only faked?

The panic blended into full-blown hysteria. He jumped out of bed, the respectable morning erection only slightly abated by the adverse context. He stumbled down the stairs, barged into the kitchen – and saw The Note. He held it up, shaking like a man stricken by a sudden fit of palsy, and just barely deciphered the words that covered it, words written in that beloved handwriting.

"Gone to save the wizarding world… have to convince other witches to commit themselves to abstinence… nobody gets any until end of war… you and I included… don't wait up for supper…"

A lesser man would have fainted dead away. But Severus was no lesser man. He was, and still is, the hero of countless fangirls and grown women. Despite his greasy hair and nasty temper, computers and plushies get named after him; icons bear his resemblance on every continent, in every single country. No, Severus possessed a strong soul, and iron self-control.

He managed to stagger into a chair before fainting.

Somehow, his erection did not follow suit.

A/N: The characters are all borrowed from JK Rowling. No disrespect is meant, no money is made, no harm is intended. The plot is stolen from Lysistrata, by Aristophanes – do go read the play if you are not acquainted with it already. An English translation is available in this website : http://drama. 


	4. The Phoenix's Song

**Part 4 – The Phoenix's Song**

This chapter is dedicated to all those who ever visited the eponymous website, and more generally to all Harry/Ginny shippers. It is also dedicated to those of you who may, or may not, live in Phoenix, Arizona. The author is happy to milk a chapter title for all it's worth, after all.

This chapter could have been about what went on right after the last part – how the other men reacted to their partner's absence, how the women got accommodated inside Hogwarts, and so on, and so forth. But, you know, beloved reader, I might abuse you quite often, but I don't underestimate your intelligence (much). I take it for granted that you are able to imagine how Order witches took possession of the castle, how they held a huge welcome feast and practised their vibrating charms; how the Death Eater wives swore the oath as well and partly joined the Order forces, partly swept out in the countryside, seeking welcome hideouts away from their husbands' watchful eyes and lust. But a majority of all witches remained in their homes, enticing and arousing their pained husbands, making sure that nothing else than the game of love ever came to their minds – and, of course, refused to give them what they were all made to yearn for.

The first effects of the new policy were already tangible in the wizarding world. War dawdled; fewer and fewer Obliviates were needed to clean all green strikes from the memory of passer-by Muggles. And more and more Weasley Whizz-bang were lighted, as children escaped their mothers' surveillance due to their increasing activities, and to their fathers' increasing level of distraction, and thus were able to have fun with explosives that were usually kept away from them.

Or maybe lack of activity would be more proper a term to describe what all the British witches were doing. Wearing skimpy nightgowns all day is a full-time occupation, but not a very fulfilling one. More witches were tempted to stray – and more witches therefore joined the safe Hogwarts to remove themselves from the reaches of temptation. And thus the crowd within the castle grew and grew. Dormitories were full to almost to the brim.

Yet all witches were not content with this fate.

Some of them regretted their partners, despite the well used and much-refined vibrating spells everyone now mastered to the perfection. Hermione had even spotted Daphne Greengrass and Cho Chang trying to cross the imposing front gates under the guise of advanced pregnancy, for the former, and mid-wifing services for the latter; needless to say, the former Slytherin was not pregnant at all, and had merely hidden a large helmet from one of the Hogwarts suits of armour under her voluminous robes to masquerade as a mother-to-be. Hermione, who also recalled a rather slim Daphne entering Hogwarts only a few days ago, therefore had an easy time putting an end to their comedy, and sending both offenders back to their dormitories like unruly first-years.

Wand still in hand, Hermione then decided to tour to ramparts, which is very convenient for the narrator, as I do not feel like a shift in point of views at this point of the story and nonetheless foresee that there is something to you might wish to read about on the opposite side of the castle.

This is the point where a long description of the castle, the ramparts, and how Hermione walked on the ramparts to reach the other side of the castle, would be called for, in order to distract you for all the time necessary to reach the place I wish to pursue the narration in. This would however be somewhat tedious, and, after some deep thought, I am not quite sure Hogwarts has ramparts anyway, which does tend to make their description somewhat arduous. The kind reader will therefore be nice and carry on directly to the next scene. If the kind reader insists, I could of course be persuaded to insert a chapter break here, but it would be your loss more than mine, I assure you.

While we are conducting this fascinating architectural argument (do magical castles invented by JK Rowling in the second half of the twentieth century have ramparts, or not? Do Snape's dungeons have torture implements designed to discipline unruly students, or not? Does Dumbledore wear Y-fronts at night, or not? Does he prefer another sock, or not? Is the author trespassing the bounds of decency and good taste, or not? Was this last question purely rhetorical, or not? And this one? How many questions may be asked within one single paragraph? Is there even a limit? When do readers get tired of it all? Does it matter whether readers get tired of it? All right, yes, it does.)

As I was saying while we are conducting this fascinating architecturo-interrogational argument, Hermione had reached the scene I was telling you about just a moment ago, you really should be paying more attention, you know.

Ginevra Weasley was perched on the ramparts and shouting to someone standing on the ground below. Upon closer inspection, the someone happened to be two people, Harry Potter and his and Ginevra's son, young James, who should be 2 years old in the spring if I'm not mixing his birthday up with somebody else's.

"What are you saying?" she yelled. "I can't hear you!"

The wind carried fragments of the answer.

"Can't live without you… Baby needs you… Can't sleep at night when you're not there… Need you more than life itself…"

"He can't go to sleep without a shag and can't stand reading "Hamster Huey" to James more than three times in a row" Ginevra swiftly translated. "I understand your point of view, dear, but I swore an oath! I won't come back until the war has ended! Well, that, and a short break from the Gooey Tablooie isn't unwelcome," she added under her breath. "If I had known the author intended to turn James into a duplicate of Calvin Petterson, I would never have had a child!"

"Can't… hear… you…" was the response from down below. Harry was looking dishevelled, and a tell-tale bulge in a place unfit to be mentioned in polite society caused some giggling among the witches massed on the ramparts to listen to the entire conversation.

Unfortunately for him, Ginny had noticed it as well, as it never failed to have an appreciable effect on her as well. Truth be told, as long as you don't repeat it, it was this very fact that led to the existence of young James about two years and nine months ago (unless of course I am mixing this up with another important event. My timelines always end up being very confusing – I do it on purpose, it makes me sound like JKR).

Ginevra was, and still is, a very sensible witch. She knew from experience what staring at her husband's crotch entailed, and she knew it never was even remotely connected with abstinence. You do not need to be wilde to realise that nothing is harder to resist than temptation; tame Ginny therefore chose the only prudent route and left the ramparts altogether to make sure she would not give in. Harry called for her, but soon realised that she would not come back, especially as the other witches also left their places on the ramparts in order to rejoin the Great Hall in time for supper. Young James began to cry, and Harry hovered on the brink of the blackest despair. Given a straight choice between reading Hamster Huey aloud for the sixth thousand, three hundred and eighty-first time and submitting to Crucio, he would doubtless have chosen the latter – when you are twisting on the ground in agony, at least you don't have to worry about being a bad parent.

"Dad-dy!"

His offspring was looking up at him with the big, bright eyes of a child that hasn't had quite enough Gooey Tablooie yet.

Harry did the only thing that could be done in those circumstances: he threw his wand away and himself on his knees, lifted his arms up skywards, and implored Heaven, or the Olympus, to send a nice little Crucio, or strike of lightning, or even a good diversion shower, his way.

Heaven is a crowded place, and God has quite enough work to manage as it is without bothering with the not-dead-yet. The Olympus is more considerate, and Zeus even consented to send a lone grey cloud above Hogwarts.

But a tall, dark, hooded figure that had previously remained hidden behind a tree walked out of the shadows, picked up Harry's discarded wand, and slowly pointed his own towards the panic-stricken wizard at his feet.

"Are _you_ going to read Hamster Huey?" James asked.

Never underestimate Potter stubbornness.

In the meanwhile, within the castle walls, most of the witches had reached the Great Hall and were currently eating heartily while commenting on Harry Potter's male attributes. Only two lone witches lingered in the corridors, talking, and stopped in a very conveniently placed alcove for us to listen to them without any passer-bys disturbing their conversation.

"You must be proud of yourself, Hermione" declared Lavender. "After all, you are the source of all this activity and citizen-like behaviour."

The author regrets that she has not introduced Lavender earlier in this story. It is of course no fault of hers, as she supposed that you are all acquainted with the brown-haired witch already. If you are not, do visit the HP lexicon; I haven't, but apparently it is full of such useful information. You might even buy the books, you know, those parallelepiped-like volumes covered in a paper jackets? They do contain masses of background information that comes in handy to understand all the fanfic, see. All right, in the meantime I'll give you a short description. Lavender is brown-headed, empty-headed, and generally carries a bimbo atmosphere all around in most of the fandom.

"If the war does end, I shall indeed." replied Hermione, who was very conveniently placed near to Lavender and thus in a position to reply. "But in the meanwhile…"

"Do you mean you miss that greasy-haired bastard you live with?"

"Come on… you're above calling him that. That's the biggest fandom cliché that has ever gone around, I had though you would know better!"

"Sorry…"

"And yes, I do miss him. And his wand. Well, him, really. This might be why I feel so…"

"Unsatisfied?"

"Frustrated would more resemble it. I had always thought myself clever, you know, I never had problems mastering a spell before, but I cannot be getting the whole range of possibilities contained in that vibrating spell. It is not… well, not like it _should_ be, if you see what I mean."

"Yes, I do indeed…" Lavender whispered in her ear. Lavender had come closer to Hermione, see, and was thus able to whisper directly in her ear. "A wand can never replace another being…"

"Aren't you invading my personal space right here?" Hermione asked, purely rhetorically of course, as she knew fully well that Lavender was indeed invading her personal space. But asking a question gave her time to analyse the fact that the invasion was not entirely unwelcome.

"Do not think of this in terms of conflict… This is lust! You should very well know this, as you are the one who wanted to substitute love to hatred, in this plan of yours…"

Lavender's voice had become dangerously seductive.

"Is this what I think it is?"

Hermione's voice had become attractively enamoured.

"It is!"

The author's dialogues have become frighteningly boring.

She therefore decided to move on to a dialogue-less narrative, but was counter-attacked by Hermione, who, as you well know, is difficult to shut up, even in the more… delicate situations.

"Wait a moment! This is not supposed to be a femslash fic! Weren't you planning to post this on Don't you know fangirls will cut you in little pieces if you pair me up with anyone else than Severus?"

Alas for Hermione, or happily for her – nothing is more frustrating than being denied sex after some teasing, after all -, the author is convinced that any lone fangirl should have fled this fic by now, because of the obscure pedantic references, lack of h0wt sexx0rs and unwelcome interruptions of the narrator in an already indigestible story. The courageous veteran readers that have reached this stage of the narration are either extremely cultivated, intelligent people, who know that behind every porn scene and obscene word, there hides a subtle allusion to some literary masterpiece, or very enduring people who merely decided to finish this because they had already begun to read it. The author would just like to state that the latter stand at some advantage here: due to a sudden, surprising lack of inspiration, there shall not be any subtle allusions to literary masterpieces in the following bit of porn. Not that this should discourage you from looking for some, mind you – you might find some yet!

So, in other words, the author shall do as she pleases. Not that it is a great change from the usual, mind you.

Hermione was thus discouraged from objecting to the author, and went back to more pleasing occupations. It was not a bit too soon in her opinion – remaining in a cramped position for so long, neck twisted to allow easier access to her ear, was not very comfortable. So: Lavender was brushing her lips against her ear (Hermione's, not her own. Even contortionists have their limits), and sliding her hand under the blouse of her former prefect's, and their breaths quickened, and…

Oh, sorry, I did say femslash was all right, even for a fic I shall attempt to post on but I totally forgot that the rating of this fic did not allow for anything too explicit. Oops.

Well, let us cast a veil of discretion on the two girls' activities, and go take a shower while waiting for the next chapter. Which shall alas be devoid of hot sexxors, but then no story is perfect.

If it is any consolation to you, the author is no lesbian, and the femslash sex you have just been spared would have been wholly unrealistic, un-arousing, and somewhat tense.


	5. The End

**Part 5 – Wherein the author grows tired of this story and therefore decides to put an end to it**

Hermione woke up feeling out of sorts. She was used to waking up in the bed she shared with Severus, driven away from sleep only by the soft smell of coffee reaching her nostrils as the aforementioned Severus waved the cup in front of her nose. She would move around on the soft mattress, reach for Severus' strong, muscled chest, then catch the attached arm and caress it until she came within grasp of the cup's handle. After that, everything blurred under the combined influence of caffeine and Severus, Severus and caffeine… and the afterglow usually lasted all day long.

But that morning was different. She was woken up by overabundant, dry hair that was being thrust into her face. Now this was uncalled for. Hair should be short, dark and greasy, otherwise it became all too clear that it didn't belong to Severus. The feeling of being out of place only increased when she noticed that she was not in bed, and must have fallen asleep on the castle's stone floor the day before. And this was nothing compared to the notable absence of coffee. Hermione and coffee deprivation did not go along well. Hermione and sleeping on hard, cold stone floors did not go along well. Hermione was thoroughly disgruntled. She did not cast another look to Lavender's sleeping form, nor to the disorganised strands of straight brown hair that were strew all around the latter's head.

No, Hermione was going back to the Hogwarts gates. If the sex-deprived men were not even able to stop a war to get their women back, she would just have to end the war herself. Killing Voldemort should do the trick – but she was prepared to annihilate Harry in the same stride if that was what it took to get back to being woken up by Severus and a cup of coffee in the morning. She had her wand – check; had run her fingers through her hair to look presentable (the author can't have the heroine looking like a mess by the end of the story, it just wouldn't look tidy enough) – check; was on her way to Voldemort – check; was prepared to ignore the latest bit of canon and pretend she could exterminate the Dark Lord without even knowing what a Horcrux was – check.

She had arrived at the gates comforted in this mindset when she saw the gates opening by themselves, and her very own Severus emerging from them.

(Please admire the narrator's splendid sense of timing)

"What are you doing here?" she exclaimed. "You aren't supposed to join us until the war is finished!"

"The war is indeed finished, my dear" Severus replied.

Hermione looked around and saw that he was accompanied by a straggly-looking Harry, a more handsome than ever Lucius, and several other wizards from both sides I shall not delve into describing, as it is too late in the story to introduce any new characters, even characters supposedly already known to you in canon.

Hermione, being a bright girl, thus understood that her darling greasy git had taken unto himself to recruit Harry to the cause of peace, probably after his confrontation with Ginny, and to make him confront Voldemort at long last, pointing out that facing a Dark Lord could not be worse than reading Hamster Huey _again_. What became of young James while his father was away saving the wizarding world remains a mystery to this day. The legend says that Severus volunteered to baby-sit; the author shall merely point out that this is clearly OOC, impossible and ridiculous to boot. No, the most likely alternative is that either Snape or Harry used the little boy to choke Voldemort – which would explain why little James is quite absent from the story from this point on. Alas, copyright laws being what they are, this story is not for me to tell, and you shall therefore have to believe that James is safely tucked up in bed somewhere.

The outcome of the confrontation must have been favourable to the younger wizard, anyway, as he was there, alive and accompanied by Former Death Eaters. To be entirely truthful, Hermione had also surmised that the war was over and that couples should re-unite by the fact that this story has almost come to its end, and that fanficcers do love happy, sappy endings.

One thing bothered her, though. Harry looked like he had been dragged backwards through a recalcitrant hedge, which was not all that surprising for a wizard that had been denied sex, confronted to a Dark wizard, and forced to fight for the sake of wizardkind, perhaps even in a way Agamemnon would not have disclaimed for himself, all that in the space of the last twenty-four hours. Lucius looked fine, but his haughty features did reflect the expression of the panther that has not seen his mate in far too long and who therefore has a predatory glint in the bottom of its eye.

On the other hand, her own Severus looked fine, but… content. Not unlike what she must look like herself, after a night spend in Lavender's arms. She however stepped towards him and seized him in a fond embrace, taking a deep breath – and they both backed away from each other at the same time.

"Why are you smelling of Wolfsbane?"

"What is that long brown _straight_ hair doing on your shoulder?"

As you can see, re-union after some time apart does not automatically cause immediate shagging, not even in fanfiction. Fortunately, we are on which means that a) they can have all the rows they want, they'll still end up with each other and b) they're both very smart, and will soon realise that Snupin and femslash are both institutions that are so good you cannot help but make small sacrifices for them – in short, the heroes may indulge in a bit of both for the sake of entertaining the readers without endangering their own relationship.

And thus did they fall in each other's arms, oblivious to their surroundings, secure in the knowledge that for them, the Happily Ever After (tm) was about to begin.

And to your, dearest of readers, the story is about to end.

**THE END**

A/N: The characters are all borrowed from JK Rowling. No disrespect is meant, no money is made, no harm is intended. The plot is that of "Lysistrata" by Aristophanes – do go read the play if you are not acquainted with it already, it is certainly available in your own language for free somewhere on the Net. If you like slash and comic books, Ralf König made a truly hilarious parody of the play, with an, hmm, alternate ending you might enjoy.

Thank you for reading.


End file.
